


Look, About Last Night

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author Commentary, Dean chucks a tanty, Dean's a sook bag, Drinking, Drunk Dean, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Embarrassed Dean, Embarrassed Dean Winchester, Embarrassment, Excessive Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fellatio, Heavy Drinking, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reader-Insert, Regret, Sex, Sexual Content, Whiskey Dick, drinkin, gettin it on, huntin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-27 14:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10026293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: You and Dean had a good hunt, and then you went to a bar, and then you got drunk.  Of course.I’m not angry.  I guess I’m just disappointed....An innocent enough night on the booze descends into poor decisions, poor performance and even poorer memory retention and Dean's reaction is...   it just doesn't go well.





	1. Just so you know

**Author's Note:**

> This is for @winchester-writes’ Drinking Writing Birthday Challenge.  
> I got No.16 Chattanooga Whiskey - “I think I heard my liver screaming at me.” Happy 21st Rose!! *tooot!!*

Y/N.  I need to talk to you about last night.   

Do you know where that bottle of Chattanooga is?  Well, either have some more now or chuck it.  Your love-hate relationship with that stuff has already begun.

Actually, no.  Just… lay there.  Just take it easy and listen, okay, because really there are things you should know before you even move.

Alright.

So, you know how the whole evening started off. It started off really well.  Like, literally, it couldn’t have gone better.  

First of all, you kicked some solid ass.  That last fight, the vamp got in a few good ones, but you had them and you had some _flow_.  High, right. Block and take and follow left.  One, two, three and right, right, right-left, shove him deep and run for the blade.  Snarling, flicking, close behind; spin and swing at breath, block.  Back up and ready… step to sync and dodge and swing.

Thud.

Done.

Fucking _yeah_ man.

“Dean?!”

“Clear!”  His voice echoed over your puffing and you righted your clothes, wiped off your blade.  

Counting off the bodies on the factory floor, you called out to check.  “How many you get?”

“Three!”

“Okay… we’re done.”

So you turned down the aisle between the production lines, dragging the length of your thumb across your chin for the blood you could feel.  You were thinking about a shower, clean clothes, and maybe a few drinks with Dean if he’s interested - usually is - and you rolled your shoulders, wondering how you got anything killed under this crappy lighting.

When you got down the end, Dean’s still on one knee amongst his kills.  You caught his eye and smiled, “You okay?”

“Yeah!”  He cleared his throat and stood.  “You got the other four huh.”

“Why?  Why bring math into this?”  You felt good, chest-full and a bit more than competent, and started grinning for the teasing that you two share when times are sweet.  I mean it’s adorable enough when the three of you get into the banter, but when it’s just you and Dean like this, it’s practically saccharine.

“Uuuuuhalways shown’ me up with the kills,” he groaned, licking his lips as he stepped in line beside you, smiling at your smile.

“It’s the only upper hand I have.”

“You have better boobs.”

“Barely.  You up for a drink after?”

“Fucking yes,” he said, stepping through the heavy door and holding it open for you.  “Capital yes.”

Soon Dean’s sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting for you to grab some water and change your shirt behind the open trunk.  His gaze was vacant, fixed somewhere through the taco, as his brain replayed the last moments of your fight.  He’s curious about how he didn’t run over to help.  You just so rarely seem in trouble, and this time, even though you’re a bit shorter than the last one, you were just awesome to watch.  Neat and direct and efficient, this earnest intensity when you watch your opponent.  He feels so lucky to see it.  

And then you came back to him, boot heels knocking on the concrete, your stride easing into the hips as you rolled your shoulders.  The shadows showed off your cheekbones and you looked dark. Formidable.  Deadly.  Again.

Two years of camaraderie and Dean wondered, more often these days, if any of these moments would make him act.  He imagines Sam being elsewhere and pulling you into his arms after victory, or throwing you up against something hard before the fight is all used up.  In those times when it’s close, though, when you hold each other in bunched sleeves and search for blood, search his eyes for the life half full, when the silences ending in nods, those times scare him because all he’d have to do is get close enough to find out if you’d lean in too.  Or not.

So, you know, he’s been thinking about it, about you, but he hasn’t been able to get anywhere with it.  I’m just telling you all this so you understand how you ended up where you are.

He was watching his fingers pinch the steering wheel cover when you cracked the silence with the car door.

“So, there’s a half-good bar barely a block from the motel,” you said.  “Neat hunt _and_ a good drink?  Two outta three huh?”  

“What’s the third?” Dean started the car.

“I dunno,” you shrugged happily, saying,  “Somethin’s bound to fuck up though.”  What, _why_ would you even?

And he says “That would be us.”

I swear, you two are the dingly-dangliest things in Fate’s line of sight.

…

Dean shaved.  I know you know this because I know you noticed, but it’s relevant: He _shaved_ and put on his nice burgundy shirt and of course his jeans are clean but he _kept_ himself clean while he downed the burger.  Dib-dabbed the napkin, all of it.  So you found that a little bit curious and figured maybe it’s just his time of the month.

But it’s inspiring, isn’t it, when he gets a little spiffy? So you spent some time doing the same, not even realising till afterward when you’re drying your hair nice and putting on lipstick and eyeliner.

I know that, if anyone were to ask, you’d have said it was for other men, and it was really, but both of you enjoy dressing up for the other, especially when you’re post-hunt without Sam.  And that doesn’t mean anything in and of itself. He’s a guy with good taste:  It’s nice to have his approval, or admiration, when you make an effort.  Well, that’s vice versa too.   After depending on his own and Sam’s opinion for years, it’s been nice to have a woman give some feedback.  That said, you did look at that burgundy shirt for a long time, the first time he wore it, so it gets a good run.  (If it ain’t broke, and all that.  Who’s complaining.)

When you emerge from the bathroom, as he always does, Dean looked for the difference, and he took the opportunity to pop a picture of you in his mind - you at this distance, where he can see you all at once, your hips and butt in those jeans, your hair looking lucky (because that doesn’t always behave), make-up on point and still just as effective a killer as ever.  Your top was cut a little lower than usual so he could see the slope of your breast a bit.  It’s _cleavage_ , rainbow-rare, and it pulled on his vision like glinting glass.  

He quit his staring and looked at his hands in his lap.   _The guy won’t know how lucky he is_ , he thought.   _Idiot_.

See?  Doomed.

“Shall we?” you asked brightly.

Dean smiled and stood, followed you out the door and pushed his hands into his pockets as you did the same.

“So, you got your fingers crossed for anything tonight?” you asked.

“Uuuh, someone nice?”  Dean thought aloud.  “I dunno, I don’t really go out looking for anything specific.”

“Me neither.  Just, not a douche,” you replied.  “Not more work.”

“Huh, it’s gotta be a bit harder for you hey?”

“Maybe. Sometimes.”  You like walking with Dean like this.  It only happens every so often.  He isn’t in a rush, so his gait is short enough that you can stride to keep up and feel light.

It’s a while before he offers, “You want me to wingman?”  You remember that weak tone? See how indifferent he is about it?

“I’m not even sure I can be bothered winging,” you said.  “I’ll see if there’s anyone inspiring, let you know.”  Your words gave him hope.  This was the point where he started imagining something different to the usual - little stills, like you under his arm, or a knowing smile as you drink, your smile as you bend for the shot, a loose kind of narrative - but he didn’t _actually_ make a plan, so it’s not all your fault.

“You’re not going to offer to wingwoman me?” You didn’t look at him then, but that fake enthusiasm didn’t even make it to his eyes.  

You laughed openly, “Dude, you don’t need help,” and Dean tucked himself into his pockets a little deeper.

…

The bar was busy - clean, popular and easy in a commercial kind of way.  There was a space for dancing but it was too busy for it, and lots of men and women milled around in their clusters, checking each other out.

You went in first, and lost Dean a bit behind you.  He waited his turn a row or so back, while you’re already ordering.  You got two whiskeys and a friendly guy sidled up by the bar.

“Hi!  You’re gorgeous!” he said to your ear.

You laughed “Hi! U-hum! Thanks!” What was that, 10 seconds? Think that’s a record for you!  High five!

Dean watched him try, as neutrally as he could, because of course there’s a guy smart enough to not waste time.

“You wanna drink with us?” he offered.

“I’m not alone,” you yelled back, and pointed over your shoulder.  “Sorry, we just arrived, I don’t wanna dump him just yet.”

“Okay,” he smiled and offered his hand. “I’m Joel.  I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Y/N,” you smiled back and shook on it.  He was gonna frikken wait for you.  How was that gonna work, huh?  He got dibs or something?  “Okeydokey.”  You collected your drinks and started weaving your way through the throng, looking for Dean, and the jostling directed you to past him on his right.

On his left, someone squeezed his forearm and tiptoed for his ear.  “Did you come by yourself?”

Dean’s head snapped around before she was really out of the way, making him double-chin to see her, and she was so pleased she already had a hold on him.

He watched her lower back to her height and bat her eyelashes.  “Uh no,” he smiled politely.

“Oh good,” she said, undeterred.  “No one should come alone.”

I concussed my face with my own hand, but Dean had the good grace to just hold his breath a second before laughing.  “Ha! Good one! No that’s, that’s the truth. But uh,” he craned his neck again, saw you looking around and breathed a sigh of relief that one of those drinks seemed to be for him. “We just got here.  I’m gonna stick with my friend for a while.”

Her eyebrows made a little _If you say so_ face and she grinned around her straw, swaying like he was going to see the light later tonight.  She was hot, and her confidence was hot, but she wasn’t quite Dean’s flavour as it turned out.  He smiled and he pulled himself out of her hold.

“Over here,” said Dean, touching your elbow to get your attention.  He led you to a table for two and slid into a chair.  “That was fast!”

“It was a simple order!”

“No, I mean with the men!” He sipped, ducking into it to add, “Not that that’s strange.  You look smokin’.”

“Aw thanks!”

“You didn’t wanna?”

You shrugged, “Nyeh,” then sipped too and nodded at his shirt pocket.  “You got a little somethin’.”

Dean glanced down and saw a piece of paper sticking out, and when he unfolded it he found a phone number written above _Hey gorgeous - Kelly xo_.  He stared for a moment, stunned, then glanced around the room to see if anyone was watching him, and there was:  A pretty woman twinkled her fingers at him, her friends grinning too.

Look at you two, fighting them off.  

Dean smiled and nodded and sipped, and looked at the table while he waited for them to stop looking.  They didn’t.  Slowly he raised his head and he said to you, bobbing with each phrase “Y/N.  I just.  Don’t.  Wanna.  Tonight.”

“And why is that good sir?”

“I just wanna get drunk with my best friend.” He shook his head for the truth of it.  

“Done and done.” You grinned at him and raised your glass, and Dean matched you for it, sparkling ease and licking lips at all your attention for each other.  The glasses clinked and you sipped together.

Kelly turned away.

…

Fast forward through two hours of flirting.  No! Actually, there was one part, you didn’t see this:

Dean shooed someone away.  There was a pair of guys behind you and he could see them talking about you in some way, planning something.  He could even tell who was the Hopeful One (who Dean recognised as kinda cute looking) and who was the Good Guy Bud who’s nodding and tilting and saying “Yes! Go! Go man!”  So Dean makes some solid eye contact with the guy, and then the Bud - about 4 seconds of _Don’t tempt me Asshole_ , while you’re checking your phone -  and they both kind of ‘feel their mortality’.  Bud actually reached out for his friend’s arm saying “Shit.  Okay, no.  Not that one.  Jesus, just, um.  Act gay.”

Anyway, Joel gave you a sorry wave at some point, gestured to the lovely girl on his arm that he’d since met, and you’d raise your glass and made exaggerated faces about that being fine and wonderful.  Other guys had seen it too, it seemed, and two of them had been politely waved off with a smile before they even got to your table.

So, after that, and after you’d bought the bottle off the shelf (you see this eyebrow? Yeah), you settled into about two hours of some intense, sunny, clever-as-shit, sexy-as-hell banter.  I _could_ tell you and none of it was actually that witty, but I’m above being supercilious.

“This was a good idea.”  Dean picked up the bottle and read the label.  Chattanooga Whiskey Co.1816 Reserve Whiskey.  “I’m sure I’ve had this before.”  He has.  That was worthy of its own t-shirt too.

You say, “I will probably have this again.”  Don’t call me when you do.  “Cheers me.”

Dean dutifully clinked and watched Arm Grabber woman slide down the length of some lucky guy.  She thinks he’s looking with regret, so turns the action so he can get an eyeful.  And, absently, he doesn’t mind watching a hot woman do stuff to an alright-looking guy, but the part of his brain left with words was saying “Don’t have to worry ‘bout her.”

So Dean was in a reflective haze, and you’re filling your glass, when Dude No.4 dragged a seat to the side of the table and asked “Are you two together?”

Both of you paused - why, you don’t know - but it took you a moment to answer “No.” (And _Icannotbelieveyouarestillpretendingatthispoint!_  I mean you’re _batting lovers away_ , right in front of each other!  All “Ooooh you knooooo, he’s a little… _something_.”  For fuck’s sake!  Ugh!   _Anyway_.)

“‘Cause I saw a coupla guys get shot down.  I’m checking that it’s not ‘cause you’re together.”

“Nope, not that,” you told him.  “Go on, hit me.”  You thumped your fist on the table, ready for the round.

He licked his lips and looked at Dean, who gestured toward you with an open palm (confident of the guy’s failure), so he started nodding, smiling.  “How many bones you got in the human body?”

No.  

Ugh.  Okay, for charity.  “206?” you said cautiously.

“Well, baby, I got two-hundred and se-”

“I will shoot you,” you said flatly.

Dean put his hand over his mouth to cover the laugh.

“Oh come on!” he cried happily, arms wide.  “Guy’s gotta try!”

“I will shoot you so hard,” you shook your head.  “Trust me.  I got two-hundred and _eight_ bullets in the trunk.”

“Oh,” he’s hurt.  “Oh, that’s so much!  Overkill!”

“Greater good,” you told him.  “Thank you for playing.”

He got up and put the chair back, opening his arms to his waiting friends and their commiserations.

“What’s the extra bullet for?” Dean asked, chewing his bottom lip through the giggles.

You slapped your hands flat on the table - “Me!” - making him start all over again.  “For fuckin’ me!  This goddamn night!”

_Where are all the women?_ you wondered.   _Why are the guys so game?_  Well, without Dean actually putting a hand on you, the boys figure he’s either being slow or you’re possibly single.  Either way they stand a chance.  But the girls, they know Dean’s look.  They can see from across the bar, from across the parking lot, that he’s not interested in any one else.  They know better than to embarrass themselves.

Dean tucked his chin into his chest and rocked back in his chair, then he had an idea: “Hey, you want me to scoot around, scare them off?”  Genius.

“Yes!” You shifted the bottle and your glass and Dean stood up enough to screech his chair beside you and drop back down, elbows on the table.

“There,” he said.  “We can play footsies and rub shoulders.”

Drunk enough, you’re drunk enough.  You leaned in and looked at his hand around his glass and pretended the other wasn’t hooking fingers into yours as you held your elbow.  You listened to him go on about the first guy who hit on you and how rude it was he didn’t even ask if you two were together, and felt his thumb rub over your fingernail, listened to the timbre of him more than his words, and how well they go with that thumb.

“How much longer we gonna stay here?” Dean asked.  He let his head drop and peeped at you from under his eyebrows.  He’s drunk too, with the blush in his cheeks and his tongue getting slack.  You could hear him dropping the ends off his words, and you felt yourself biting numb cheeks.  You’re so _observant_ when you’re drunk.

“Le’s have another water, then go.”  Dean nodded and filled the tall glass, but passed it to you.  You were a good girl, downing most of a pint.  

“Pit stop,” you said loudly and hauled yourself up and through the human pinball machine to the ladies.  Making yourself puke ran through your mind, if only it wouldn’t give you horrid breath.  You’re so _sensible_ when you’re drunk.

When you got back to the table, Dean was gone but the bottle was there, so you held it and stood there - probably looking quite stable - and waited.  You waited a while, but you didn’t notice.

“Hey, you good?”  There he is! But pushed up against your side, a bit sweaty, strong whiskey-warm breath blowing over your hair and in the bustle of it his arm was around you, your hand against his belly as you’re twisted in the jostle, but you didn’t care.  You’re beyond drunk enough.  He wasn’t moving away.   _Steal it,_ you thought, _steal the contact_.

“I’m good!”  You looked up and smiled and he gazed at you with what was definitely a boozy stare, lazy eyes on your lips, with no sense left to think of how lustful he seemed, his unsupervised hand giving your hip a good feel.

“Alright!  After you!” He herded you before him, hands on your hips helping you weave through the crowd, and he let himself bump into your back when you stopped, spreading his fingers and leaning while you waited.  When you got a clear path for a few steps, he held on tight and pulled you slow, teetered behind you side-to-side so his boots could get around your feet, and you guess he was happy, pretending he wasn’t feeling you up against him.  You took it.

Outside it was cool, the kind of cold that make the skin on the back of your arms go numb, but it’s nothing your drunkenness couldn’t handle.  Dean wrapped his arm over your shoulder.

“Mmmm, you’re always so warm,” you said, thumping your sodden steps along the concrete.

“Anytime you need warmin’ up,” he said, lips against your hair, “come see me.”

“Hmmm.”  You watched the hypnotic repetition of your feet, each step striking the concrete together, legs buzzing with whiskey and activity, deceptively energised.

It’s about a 20 minute walk between the motel and the bar, enough time for you to start kidding yourself about your sobriety.  In what you think is predawn clarity - when you begin to emerge from the thickest of the cloud and decide this is the smartest you’ve ever been - you started to wonder how far this affection of Dean’s would go, what that might look like, and you wondered how you might react.  You were not smart enough to notice that you did’t actually make a decision about that.

Then your footsteps are echoing down the long porch of the motel rooms, and your room is in sight.  Dean’s arm dropped from your shoulder to your waist and he tucked you close, swaying you both into an arc along the footpath.

You pulled up at the door, your speed too fast for too long, and mumbled “You got the key?”

“I got the key,” he said.  “I always got the key.”  He let you go, digging into his pocket and you leaned your back against the door jamb, breathing deep, still hugging the whiskey.

Dean slid the key into the lock and turned to you, didn’t wait for you to step up, just leaned in and kissed you.  It’s wet and cushy - slack, really - but it became deep and slippery real quick.  Your head was wedged in the corner of the jamb and the door, and it was uncomfortable but you couldn’t feel it much.  There was just the sound of lips and wetness and your hair being dragged between wood and scalp.

Dean’s left hand found your waist okay, but the right didn’t really pick a post and just ended up holding your upper arm, kind of helping you stay steady while he leaned those knuckles against the door.  It was a bit not-great but when it finished he was looking at you like he thought you’re just tops, gentle and happy.

“Always wanted to kiss you,” he smiled and you smiled back, surprised and so, so thrilled. The stuff of pink strawberry-flavoured journal entries, use a little heart to dot the I.

Now, at this point, I just want to say: I forgive you.  I mean, I forgive Dean too, but I forgive _you_.

I mean, you’ve dreamed of a first kiss with Dean a hell of a lot.  There’s probably a formula involving time, ‘Sweethearts’, winks and other women that could calculate how many times you’ve dreamed of him kissing you.  Every one of them would become the start of something bigger.  None of them looked like that.  But you are way too drunk, way too smitten, to care.

_I got a kiss;_ that’s what you’re thinking.  And I don’t blame you.  Dean fucking kissed you!  You could deal with the rest later.

And that’s what his brain - all gooey and horny, floating in grog and a toddler-aged crush - his brain is about there too.  Maybe he should’ve noticed his state, but he didn’t.  He’s thinking _I’m gonna kiss her again_.

You see what I’m saying?  Fate was against you.  So from here on, it’s all downhill - I’m just filling in the blanks.

Dean turned the key and you followed him in, _cal-lump_ ing the bottle on the table.

Behind you, he turned on the lamp light between your beds, which, in hindsight, might’ve been the romantic part.  You said “Did you need the bathroom?” and turned around to find him right there, sorta stepping up close so his fingers could slide up and down the backs of your arms, nudged his nose around your forehead.

You didn’t really move, just kept your balance, let your fingers rest on the sides of his shirt since there’s nowhere else sensible for them to go, and ended up  tracing the belt loops of his jeans.  

His breath sounded sleepy through his nose.  “Y’always so pretty, Y/N…  Gorgeous.”

You expected that Dean would be a more heated lover, more raunchy or fun, and what you’ve overheard in the past was both those things, but maybe he doesn’t like doing that with someone he knows - _With a girlfriend_ , your silly brain said - but regardless, you’re willing to go along with whatever tone he prefers.  In fact it’d have to be some pretty curly action for you to say no.

You looked up, wishing you could tell if that was love-drunk or drink-drunk.  He  leaned down and kissed you again, and it was just like before, for a while.  Then his hand cupped the back of your head, and he reached with his tongue more, humming a bit.  Then his other hand pulled you close to him, and he pressed loud, wet kisses over your cheek.  His feet shuffled closer and he hugged you against him, ignoring how your mouths mismatched, both of you correcting the sway.  

There was a fat delay on every move (you’ve never seen him this drunk) plus a layer of dumbness across your senses.  Every sound seemed isolated, heightened while you couldn’t listen to more than one at a time - his breath, the wetness, or shoes on carpet - and each snapshot you caught was overwhelming.  His lips so unusually close, fingers on your softer skin, on your waist, how his face tilted for you, your hand right there above his collar, fingertips to hairline, and your sense of touch couldn’t get those things to synchronise at all.

You were literally and figuratively wasted on each other.

“I wan’ you,” he said, burying himself in your neck.  “Always have.”

“Mmm.  Me too.”  

It felt like a regular, big Dean hug, except for the chub in his pants.  Vaguely you thought of the short, velvety hair under your palm, and how wide he was in your arms, but that bulge was distracting, like proof.   _He wants me!_ you thought, and let yourself go wide-eyed and doughy in his arms.

“Uh, you smell so good.  I want you Y/N… Can we?”  Seriously.  That’s what he said.

“Can we… um… ?” You weren’t sure about what he meant exactly, although you’re pretty sure he meant sex.  His arms started roaming up and down, blunt hands dragging and squeezing you, and you were feeling kneaded into compliance, which was hardly a task.   _He can have me.  Deal with it later_.

“You know,” he breathed and his nose followed you around as you looked across his chest, looked down at your bodies pressed together and your hands on either shoulder now.

“‘Kay,” you sighed and for a moment it wasn’t just the whiskey, it was _him_.  Tall and handsome, and amazing and close, saying intoxicating things like wanting you, always wanting you, holding you against himself, and looking at you with happy lines and sparkling eyes. (Even if they were bleary with grog.)

Dean started to undo his shirt, face hiding under your chin, and kissed you between each button popping free.  You started on your jeans, pausing to kick off your boots, and helped slide the shirt off his back.

Then he toed off his boots too, grabbing your hips to help steady himself, and stopped to kiss you some more, this time cupping your face and brushing your hair back.  “Okay, you sure?”

“Mm-hmm.”  You nodded, getting excited, ready for it to get real hot real soon, although that was pretty damn hopeful.   _Don’t care.  Deal with that later.  Dean’s unzipping his jeans._

“Okay,” he said and took a deep happy breath, a crooked smile down at you while he paused and brushed your hair some more.  “That’s good.”  (I’m not rolling my eyes, but you two are _terrible_.)

You smiled back and waited, hands paused on your own belt.

“You’re always so hot,” he shook his head, kissing you some more, “so good looking.”  

He helped push your jeans down and pull your top up your body, murmuring “Oh my God. Y/N,” and you’re backed onto his bed, crawling backwards and watching him hold you up and sit on his feet so he could lick your nipples into his mouth and drag his tongue over the tips.  It felt lovely, heightened with the fizzle of being drunk, and you pushed your fingertips through his hair as he drove his hands broad and hot up your back and around your waist.

Sozzled or not, you guys looked fucking hot.  Just, so hot.  No, honestly.  You in his arms and his mouth on you, all those curves and the proportions of him, the contrast of his body against yours, all the _skin_.  It doesn’t matter if he couldn’t cross his fingers or tie his shoes at that moment, his hands knew what to do by memory, and he wrapped his arms around your waist and hugged you so tight, smiled into your bust, looking so pleased for himself.  Just, all manner of hot.

Still, thank fuck he remembered some protection.  Crawling back to his jeans a moment, he dug around for the condom, and you took it from him, laying back and letting him kiss you while he hovered there and you rolled on the protection.

For a while, you’re a little worried.  His 207th bone had a lot of give, and you hoped he’d think your repeated attempts at rolling down the protection were just from clumsy fingers.  You were sure, as experience suggests, that he’d harden up once you got started.  

“Sorry, I’m pretty drunk.”  

He noticed.

“That’s okay,” you smiled. “You’re fine.”

Dean waited for you to get your panties off, then laid himself down on top of you, burning hot and a bit salty and musky, starting to sweat out the alcohol from the night.  Still with that belly-deep breath, he looked over you, got his fingers between the lips of your pussy and started circling the nerves.  It was good, and you bucked for it, making him smile and lean down to kiss you some more.  Again he led his kisses down to your neck, then to your shoulder, and after a while, after more circling, his mouth felt quite heavy against your collarbone and you thought maybe he’d lost track of time…

“Dean,” you said, “you still wanna?”

“Yeah!” He popped up.  “Yeah.  What? O‘course.”

He guided himself to the dent between your thighs, nudged against your opening, ignoring how he bent a bit, and pushed, your wetness easing the way.  You got over the lack of foreplay and concentrated on the fact that Dean - freaking _Dean_ \- was now inside you.  He groaned from the heat, biting his lip all the way to the base and you felt him push you apart.

“Ohhh,” he sighed, “feel so good.”

“Yeah.”  Straight off you started moving, a jolting buck for any kind of rhythm in your clumsy state.

He was so near, so close that it was like your left eye and his right were the only two looking and he was smiling the whole time, looking down at your lips as he rolled gently, like he couldn’t believe he was getting to have you.

Dean kissed you and you pulled your legs up, encouraging depth, but you could also feel his softness drag against you, around the firm core of his cock.  It felt good, sweet and lovely, with enough thickness to satisfy, and you knew that the friction would be enough for you, given enough time.

“Roll over,” you said.

Dean lay on you and tucked you tight, threading his arm under your neck and rolling in a practised move.  It kicked a little surge of admiration - that ready ability he always has, even when completely tanked - and you leaned up and pushed on his chest, sitting tall and rolling your hips.

“Can’t believe this,” he smiled.

“Really?”

“Yeah, always wanted to.” He slipped his fingers up and down your waist, beaming thankfully, just watching you rock on him for a while, watching your breasts, your body take him in, and he blinked, lazy and soft, like _Wow,… pretty_ , letting his fingers roam and come back to your hips.

And then, after a while, he seemed to just sigh into it, really relax into what you’re doing, and in the weak light he looked…

You stopped for a second, but he didn’t seem to notice.  And when you moved again, he almost slipped out.

“Dean?”

No response.  Still smiling.  Quickly you leaned over, letting him fall out of your pussy completely, the condom thready and wet at the end.  His heart was still going.

“Dean.”

Nothing.

You climbed off and looked at him lying there.  Happy.  Nude… but for the condom.

You sat and thought and in your definitely-still-going-to-bump-into-shit state, after chewing your lips and noticing how much you couldn’t really feel that, you wondered _What would a buddy do in this sitch?_

And can I just say how good you are?  You’re not pissed off that this is nothing like any fantasy you’ve ever had. You’re not slapping him awake.  You’re looking after him, even as your neglected pussy - sorry, not neglected - _patient_ pussy gives it up for the night.

You’re thinking _Welp.  He’s drunk.  So am I.  Whatever.  Shit happens._  A regular hero.

You got a tissue and, as though you’re stitching him up from a self-inflicted wound, started to carefully pull the condom off his dick, by the reservoir at the tip.

There really is a lot of give in a flaccid penis, and in a condom.  While the condom pulled him long, you rolled it up halfway, then closed your eyes until you felt the rubber _thhh-p’tack!_ against your fingers, and checked that the little feller wasn’t too traumatised.

With some rolling and shuffling, lifted limbs and pushed hips, you got him under the covers.  He was still sorta smiling, so you dutifully went to brush your teeth (which should’ve had circus music: tooth… paaaste, scrubba scrubba, dental hygiene, scrubba scrub, pretend you didn’t just jab yourself in the gum, up and down, twitch an overshoot and brush your chin, Gawd okay, spit, rinse, spit oops dribble, rinse, spit like a nymph, tube cap surgically ON, brush in the- brushinthe- BRUSHINTHEBAG JESUS).  You pulled on some sleep gear, peed away half your body weight, drank that much again in water, and crawled in behind him.  

Why didn’t you sleep in the other bed, by yourself?  Because you were still drunk, and you weren’t yet done making mistakes.

So that’s why Dean is now tucked up behind you, naked, still sweating alcohol, and blowing some rank morning-after breath on your neck.  This is where your flirtatious friendship of 25 months has come to: coconutting heads, tripping over it’s own underwear, and tangling itself into an indefinable mess in less than 6 hours.

I’m telling you this because _one of you_ should know the details of last night.  I don’t know how Dean will react.  I don’t know if he’ll say “Oops, dicks huh? Whattyagunnado?” or if he’ll drive into the sea.  I don’t even know if he’ll pretend nothing happened. I doubt it though.

I just know he’s about five seconds from waking up, realising he can smell you and feel you as close as he’s ever wanted, and wishing that those two things could stave off a hangover from a hellhound’s arse.

“Mpph.”  There he is.  “I think I heard my liver screaming at me.”

You will be dealing with this _now_.


	2. I'm sure it'll be fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I don’t know what you wanna do with all that, but Dean’s waking up, so I guess we’re about to find out.

It doesn’t matter that his hands are a bit clammy, or that his breath is virtually flammable death over your neck.  He feels perfect.  And I don’t blame you one jot.  You guys look adorable.  You _stink_ like a tavern carpet, but sooo, so pretty.

You lay still and let him move, shifting and inching up behind you where there’s no more space left.  After a while though, he relaxes and groans and puts his forehead on the bones of your neck.  “I’m so hungover.”

“Really?” You turn your head to talk and see his bare shoulder behind yours, a long smooth arm reaching around and you follow them down to his fingers holding your arm, over your belly, warm and awake.  “What are the chances you’re still drunk?”

“Pretty high,” he groans and rolls himself away.  “Oh hey, uh-” Yep, he’s still naked.  “I’ll just-”

You lay your head down and wait for him to get some pants on, and soon he’s teetering passed like his ass got beat, a sheepish wave on his way to the bathroom.  “Just gonna-”

“Yeah,” you smile and watch him disappear behind the door.

“You want me to grab some food?” you call out.  “For when you’re able?”

There’s a patch of silence while, you assume, he gathers strength to talk.  “Yeah…  I guess.”

Right then.  Worse than usual.

There’s a diner beside last night’s bar and they have greasy goods and pie and in the name of staleness and solidarity, you’re happy to get a pile of junk for the morning.  

By the time you get back with two of everything dangerous, he’s showered and sitting at the table with this head in his hands. The sight gives you a flush of regret, a sickening fear that he’s thinking about you and not his condition.

“You want me to leave it in the bag?” you offer.  “Until you feel ready?”

“No, uh,” Dean lifts his face and.  Yyyyikes.  He’s practically green.  “I should probably eat.”

“Did you puke?”

“No,” he grimaces, as if that’s beneath him, but he still thinks about it.  

“Maybe you should.”  

Dean lays his forearm on the table and rests his forehead upon it.  “It’s too late for that anyway,” he sighs sadly. You two really do have a close relationship huh?

You dig up some water from somewhere and grab his wrist, putting the bottle in his hand.  It wakes him and he mumbles “Hey,” reaching for you, hooking your t-shirt before you’re out of reach.  He puts the water on the table and pulls on your hand, leading you back and wrapping an arm around your thighs so he can lean his head against you while you stand beside him.

“Hope this is okay,” he slurs.  You answer him with featherlight fingers through his damp hair, but you’re tentative about it. More hesitant than I’d expect considering recent events.  You saw what happened right?  Dean reached out for you, barely opened his eyes to do it.  Mmm, that domestic stuff just does things to me.

A long groan oozes out of him and he holds your hips to move you around his knee, in between his legs, so he can get a better hug.  You put your hands on his head, gently, without moving, and slide one down between his shoulder blades.

He nuzzles against you and his arm muscles push into your waist as he hugs.  “Mmmbetter already.”

It’s lovely, and he pretty much smells like himself again.  You’re trying to relax with _Dean_ now _snuggling into you_ , and not wonder if you’ve stepped into a parallel universe via intoxication.  You stroke his head and frown a bit, look around as he enjoys just a still moment of having you this close…  and you are… are you…?   Is that…

Regret?

Ohrrrreally?!  REALLY?!   REGRET IS WHAT YOU’RE FEELING THERE Y/N? HOW INTERESTING THAT YOU SHOULD FEEL THAT FEELING.  Could you not have predicted that last night in your drunken haze??!  Maybe you-

“I’m really glad last night happened,” you say, and take a deep breath.

…Good.  Then.  

Okay.

So you should.

Dean lets his head slump back on his neck, looking at you through closed eyes, and when he opens them, against the good advice of his brain, he smiles adoringly and blinks the sleep away.  “Me too,” he agrees. “Wasn’t too classy, but that was always pretty likely I guess.”

He doesn’t see it, but I do; you do a little squish-release pair of blinks that gives away your realisation: _Dean doesn’t remember._

Oh Sweetie.  Sweetheart.

Then he tilts back a bit more, as if to reach up for you, and you bend down in reply, kissing his lips under the pleasant shock of it being so much more consuming and sexy than last night.  You can feel the size of him better, sigh into his hand on your hair and the way he asks you to kiss more, rolling it and licking across your lip, then your tongue.  It’s good.  It’s really fucking good.  You consider sitting in his lap, or straddling even, but he grunts at the position - his hungover head is unhappy.

When it finishes, he stares at your lips, a cocky half-smile about him, and watches you stand straight again.  Then he slides his hands up and down your sides, down your back, taking his time over your ass.  You raise an eyebrow at him and he grins, busted, and because he’s a gentleman he’s careful to keep his bad breath from you when he says “I wish I didn’t feel so shit.”

“Me too.  You okay to drive?”

“Yeah.  I’ll let you know if I’m not.”  He plants a hand on the table and pushes himself tall, kissing you on the head as he steadies himself.  “We should get some miles in, take the food to go.”

…

Packing and checkout and getting out and leaving.  It’s all so habitual that you’ve forgotten the stuff you might change if you were more awake and less distracted.  Things you would address if you weren’t slipping back into awkwardness.  (Oh my God.  Woman.  Just chill, would you?)

Dean glances at the map, the cassettes, water, sunglasses, and food - all the crap that usually sits between you when you’re road tripping for a hunt.  I understand why it’s still there, and how you haven’t figured a smooth segue to clear all that aside and slide on into that side-hug you’ve been eyeing off for a year or so.  Still wish one of you would just fucken sweep it onto the floor.

But no one does.  Dean smiles at you and you smile back and because he’s driving it’s a bit tricky for him to see you properly and gauge how you are.  He’s spending most of his energy on being upright, and driving safely.  You’ve got 4 hours to go, and you’re looking out your own window with some dedicated attention.

Five minutes crawl by and Dean says “Hey you think you could unwrap somethin’ simple outta that pile of food?”

You dig out a hashbrown and tear off some paper for a handle, passing it over.  He says a thanks and has half a bite, waiting for a sign of revolt before he has more.

More miles pass.  Even more.  Seriously, it’s been 20 minutes already.  Can you feel me staring?  I’m staring at you.  He is driving; _you_ have to _do something-_

Oh thank god, you’ve cracked.  Dean watches you sift through the tapes for something and pop it into the deck, and he’s ready with a smile.  

“What d’you pick?”

“Uh, nothin’ in particular,” you shrug.  “Foreigner.”

His smiles have always hijacked you, and now that he wants you to smile back, more than ever, you’re practically kidnapped by his attention and absently tidy the things strewn about.

He nods happily and you smile, then cross your arms, curl your body and tuck your feet under y- Oh for _fuck’s sake!_  Don’t sleep!   _Talk!_  Put your legs up on the seat, put them on his lap!  Fucking, do that _while_ sleeping! Talk about last night!    **A n y t h i n g** but this!

“Wake me if you need a swap.”

“No problem.  You should rest while you can.”

Rrrrrr _fine_.  You’re making him nervous though.

…

This is very frustrating.

I’m watching Dean slowly slump into his seat and twist his grip on the wheel while you’re slack jawed against the glass over there, dreaming about the sweet parts of last night. He’s trying to piece the sweet parts together, and he’s missing whole chunks of the last half day.

Every now and then he has a bit of a blink and shrugs it off, shuffles back up and changes his grip, because surely you would’ve said something if anything was wrong.

Right?

But you’re not awake to curtail this spiral of self-doubt, so I’m just going to sit back here and watch the unease eat away at him because it’s the least I can do, but also the _literal most_.

Two hours since you started drooling and he’s finally, _finally_ , hit the wall.  He doesn’t want to poke you so does a subtle swerve with the car.  You smear into the glass a little, but don’t waken.

So he swerves the other way, into the gravel a bit, and you slide left, knocking your forehead on the leather of the door.  

“Sorry. Squirrel,” he thinks to say, but you don’t look at him, just surreptitiously wipe some spit off your chin, then off the glass, and unfold yourself before looking over for a blinky smile.

“You wanna take a break?” you croak and reach your arms and legs out as far as you can.

You recognise the road, and know there’s a stop a ways ahead.

Dean kind of ignores the question, because he has a few of his own.  “So, last night,” he starts.

“…Yyyyyeah.  What about it?”

He looks over at you and you smile - a proper assuring smile, and that pops one onto his face too.

“What did you want to know?” you ask, watching him try to relax a little.

“We had a good time, right?”

“Yeah!”  Okay, not too hard.  Honesty is enough.  “Yeah I had a great time.  I think, wait- you don’t remember?”

Dean looks ahead, thinking and glancing around the horizon about what to say.  “I remember… having a good time,” he says. “I’m just… missing a few parts.”

“So what do you want to know?”  You wiggle in the seat, bracing for his questions.

“Like, I _didn’t_ kiss you at the bar, did I?”  Confirmation question.

“You did not kiss me at the bar,” you nod.  “Neither of us kissed anyone at the bar.”

“Right… lots of hopefuls, though.”  He smirks, then thinks some more, tries to create a tactful non-incriminating question.  “So who kissed who first?”

You huff a little because if _that’s_ his first question…  “What the hell do you remember?”

Dean shifts in his seat and the car slows a bit while he flips through the memories.  “I remember kissing… I remember… asking you if we could… something?”  He squints at you and you kind of laugh back.

“Huh, yeah.  You asked.”

“What did I say?”

“‘Can we?’” you report, fairly indifferently.

“What? ‘Can we?’  Really? That’s it?”  He sounds annoyed.

“Well, … yeah, pretty much.  Yeah.”

Dean turns back to the road, wincing his cheeks at that because it doesn’t sound like him.  “What else did I say?”

“Uh, nice things,” you shrug.  “I think you like my breasts.”

“Yes!  Yes I do,” he says confidently and you laugh with him.  “I remember liking them.  Yes.”

The smiles are relieving, and you breathe a little easier.  “You said you couldn’t believe we were doing this, that you’d wanted it for a while.”  Only when it’s out of your head do you wish you’d thought twice.  That sounds a lot like _ffffeelings_ , the kind of feelings that would normally be kept for a more intimate moment, not casually tossed over cold grease on a featureless highway in Kansas.

“Wow, I musta been really drunk huh?” Dean snorts.

Both of you cringe.  Dean kicks himself for such a thoughtless comment, and you flinch at a throw-away line that suggests a throw-away night.  

“Fucking hot though.”  Slight overshoot on the tone, but his nerves reassure you.  “I mean, I remember you, you know, above me.”  He gestures vaguely with his hands, over at the road like the image is out there somewhere and you give him a polite _That’s great!_ face you’ve been saving for Thanksgivings.

The rest stop appears up ahead, with a cinderblock restroom and, to your eyes, the whole patch glows heavenly.  You go to ask for a break but Dean says “Did I really just say ‘Can we?’”  and looks at the fields like _That can’t be right._

“Pretty much,” you blow it off, and point at the little out-building.  “Can we stop up here?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, not thinking about it.  “So then we… _did._  And…”

You’re still pointing, like a compass, and he slows the car, not so much because this is where you want to stop but because he can’t figure this out and drive at the same time.  

“Yes, right here,” you mutter, as he flicks the indicator.  You’re pretending everything is fine. “I just wanna, um.”

S l o w l y the impala rolls up to the short poles along the gutter, angle parked and pointing at a woody hillside.  You’re leaning forward, holding the dash, waiting for this conversation to be over.  Dean still has his mouth open as though a word will climb out, and the motor cuts out right about when you give up hope of this going well.

The woods beside the stop stretch up and down the road.  They’re dense and become pretty much opaque beyond the first row of trunks.  You wonder if there’s a charitable bear nearby who’d put you out of your misery.

Dean shifts himself to face you, with an arm along the seat’s back.  He’s blinking sternly, lips poised as he builds a question.  “So… what happened next?”

Your answer is stunted, like it’s Morse coded from your brain to your mouth.  “We.  Had.  Sex.”  You shrug like _You know, sex!_

Dean’s lips hang slack in a thoughtful pout.  (See if you didn’t have all that road trip crap between you, you could kiss him and he’d stop asking questions.  Sucks to be you.)  “Was it _good?”_

You keep shrugging, wobbling your head and glaring - scoffing! - as if you mean _Of course yes_ but it takes you ages to actually say anything.  “…Ye-heah. _Yes_.”  That was rubbish.  

“What?”

“Dean it was fine!”  No, God, don’t say _fine!_   Say great!  Say amazing!  “I really enjoyed it!”  Ugh, you and your fuckin’ integrity.

Dean’s glaring hard now, really digging through the jellied memories to find what came next, and he starts pointing loosely as he lists off what he recalls, mumbling the facts.  “There was the bra, boobs…”  
You undo your seatbelt saying, “I’m just gonna-”  
“…and then I…” His fingers circle suggestively.  
“I need to um.”  You’ve got the door handle.    
“And you did the… and then…”

You’re ducked already, watching him from under your eyebrows, and you see the moment he realises that at some point the evening just… _disappeared_.  He goes still, then slowly lifts his head, realisation dawning, and stares through the windscreen.

“Dean, I.  I had a really great time,” you assure him, but he blinks abruptly and looks at you hard, kind of boinks an uberglare. You wince, almost apologise, because he knows damn well that it was not, nowhere near, it _could not_ have been, _anything_ like a “ _really_ great time”.  

He blinks at the dash, stares stunned out his window, then gets out of the car, and walks into the woods.

Well, that’s not good.

You get out too and come around to the grille, trying to see where he’s gone, but the dense forest has swallowed him up.  You hear the odd break of twigs under footfalls, then a snap of a branch, as he climbs up a ways.  Then some grumbling, grunting, and leaves or branches being shifted around before a slow series of shush-crunching noises.  You imagine he’s slamming a branch on the ground, since that’s what it sounds like.

Crossing your arms, you lean against the car and wait.  There’s some sort of shallow thud, then Dean groaning _Sonofabitch!_

“Dean?”

Silence again, before your phone buzzes in your pocket.  “Dean?”

“Okay so after I was a complete bitch and said _Can we_ ,” he starts, tone dripping with disgust, “and after I.  Oh fuck, I can’t even, with, whatever _that_ was…  We used a condom.”

You sigh and rub an eyebrow.  “Yeah we did.”

“It’s just,” he huffs a breath and takes a second, “I don’t remember… using the condom.”

“No, it was probably… uh.”  Be gentle.  “Under utilised.”

There’s a whispered _“No”_ and then he puts the phone his chest, which makes his grizzled “Nooow _wuh!”_ extra growly.

More cracking of wood and, from what you can hear through the phone, stomping.  It all stops for “Is that why it took so long to get it on?  Was I fuckin’ _soft?”_

“Dean, honestly, this isn’t important-”

“What happened to it?”

You’ve got your whole hand across your eyes now and finally give up trying to save this. “What do you mean?”

“Who took it off?” he demands.

Sweetheart, he’s going to set fire to something anyway.  

“…I did.  I pulled it off while you were passed out.”

That’s right.  Let it burn.

The phone call ends, replaced by the regular sound of Dean breaking every branch he can hate on.  He’s trying to be quiet, but there’s nothing else to hear, and every crunch comes with a curse.  “ _Son_ ofa!   _Fuck_ ing!   _Bitch!_   _Mo_ ther!   _Fuck_ ing!   _God!_   _Dam_ mit!…”

You call out at the hillside, “I’m going to use the restroom,” and he stops whatever he’s doing.  Maybe he didn’t realise how much you could hear.

When you get back to the car, Dean’s behind the wheel.  You heard him use the restroom too, waited for him to finish first, and you get into the passenger seat without a word.

He’s slumped against the door with his forehead in his palm, scowling at the dash like _Why didn’t you save me Baby?  Huh?  Where were you?_

You decide to go on as though all is normal, albeit a little more gently than usual, making some light conversation.  “We got some water back there?”  I think you’re dealing with this really well, by the way.  Just, well done you.

After a second, Dean sighs and says “Yeah, we do,” taking the out, easing up like he might get over it.  He looks back and slings an arm over, then sees the Chattanooga Whiskey sitting next to the water in the box of road trip staples.  

Fury renewed, Dean snatches the bottle and hauls himself out of the car in one move.  He stomps over to the gutter and pulls back, skipping into a full-bodied throw that sends the bottle tinkling high into the sky and so far into the woods you don’t even hear it land.

Dean stalks back to the car, gets in and starts the engine.  He pulls out onto the road so fast the car fishtails, accelerator taking it all.

“We can talk about it later,” you say, and Dean thumps himself into the seat a few times, getting settled, elbow against the door and head in his hand, making no sign of reply.  “If you want.”

Only 90 minutes to go!

…

When Dean pulls the car into its parking spot and turns off the engine, he just sits there and stares over the hood.  You wait for him, watching, but all he says is “Sorry Y/N,” and gets out of the car.  He collects his things and trudges off to his room, the laundry, wherever, and you wonder if you should text him something.  But really, it’s not clear how he feels; maybe just let him be for a while.

Dinner comes and you catch up with Sam over just two plates.

“Has Dean eaten?” you ask him.

“Uh yeah, he grabbed something, said he wasn’t well.”  Sam doesn’t miss the ol’ _God Dammit Dean_ trio - huff the shoulders, roll the eyes, shake the head.  “What, did shit go down during the hunt?”

“Yep,” you grumble.  “Shit went kablooey.”

Sam glances at you and digs around his food.  He knows enough to know, and acts half concerned.  “You in Regretsville or somethin’?”

You’re a little surprised he’s not surprised.  “I dunno… I think it didn’t… go how he woulda liked.”

Sam sits up kinda curious and frowns at you.  Rocket leaves poke out of his mouth while he munches and thinks.  He looks a bit like a llama.  “Really?  He’s liked you for a while.  I woulda thought anything woulda been good enough.”  Dig, dig, munch, munch.  Does he realise what you two are talking about?  “Did you not wanna?”

“No, I did,” you say, still unsure of what’s going on.  “It’s just he’s reacted so strongly, I’m not sure what he wants now.”

“Nya, prob’ly thinks his dick’s too small or somethin’.”

“Sam!”  

Damn he needs to go for a run or something.

“Well it’s _Dean,”_ he shrugs.  “He’s got a pretty fragile ego sometimes.”

Yes!  Do that!!  Go make him feel better about his dick!  I mean, not his dick, but just let him know you want him anyway.  Still.

“I’m pretty sure your ego is just as sensitive Sam,” you mutter defensively and finish your own meal.  “What if a girl you liked said your hair was just… _meh?”_

“I’d be fine with it,” Sam says, eyebrows high over closed eyes.  You clean up your plate and leave, and Sam sits there deciding that, yeah, he really would be okay with a girl not caring about his hair… if she really liked his dick.


	3. I'm just sayin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No-no, you know best. I mean I know I wouldn’t add more alcohol to the situation, but whatever. You do you. I’m sure it’ll all work out just _fine._

Okay so what you wanna do is, just text him. Right? Easy. Let the man save face, and you go- where are you going? 

No. _No,_ don’t talk to him! He’s embarrassed! Let him come to you! Just- No, _don’t knock!!_ Jeez Louise.  _  
_

“No.”

See? That’s not a firm No, nor a snappy No, it’s an _I know who it is and Nooooo I don’t wanna.  
_

But you let yourself in anyway. Rude.

“Oh, Y/N, just-”

“Okay.  That’s enough.”   Oooh…  I _like._   “This is bordering on pathetic.”

Dean tilts himself, kind of bends back against his pillow to look at you rather than raise his head, and sighs petulantly before rolling his eyes.  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says. He’s answering your comment from all the way back near the Chattanooga purge.

“Talk about what?” you shrug. “I didn’t come to talk.  What would I want to talk about?”  You lean against the door, and tilt your head coolly.

He is unmoved. So you reveal the whiskey and glasses from behind your back, dangle them as an offering. (Have you learned _nothing?)_

“I don’t wanna drink about it either,” he says flatly. Very sensible.

You pout heavily and put it all on the desk, then hold the bottle and the lid, paused with sad puppy-dog eyes, and wait for him to give in.

He sighs dramatically, closes the book before him and chucks it under the dresser, groaning “All right,“ then crosses his arms.  You drop a healthy _gu-lug-gu-lug_ into each glass while he asks “What aren’t we going to talk about?”

“Sh-sh-sh-shhhh,” you tell him and hand him his drink.  “To a good hunt.”

Dean’s suspicious, as am I, but gives you a nod and drinks anyway.  You put away half your drink on the first go.  Wh- that’s a _lot._ What are you doing?

“Hey, look,” he shifts himself.  “I meant to say about that.  You were.  You were pretty fucking awesome last night.”

There’s a break in his surly demeanour as he recalls those sweet moments when you were the only two walking away from the carnage.  

“You too,” you smile.  “You always are.”  And then you empty your glass.  Um, you trying to get that mistake done right or something?

“Nah, but last night.”  He shuffles his butt into the mattress a bit, getting comfy, and starts a shallow nod of The Shit He’s Seen while he has a good sip.  “Yooooou were somethin’.”

He’s easing up a bit so you don’t say anything, just let him roll and drink the whiskey.  You don’t know how lucky he is to have someone who can read him so well.

“I saw the fight, the last one, and how you worked it back and forth, and you watch them…” he says, getting lost his own descriptions while you refill your glass (I’m frowning, Y/N.  Alcohol solves nothing.)  “You’re so damn neat, and then when you walked back, I had like, the [Crazy 88 theme](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FsJlu_xo79k8&t=MjIyMDczMTljYzllMGU0NThkZGJmMjgxMjA1ZjNmYzIzYjUwZTA4MyxvN0RqUzVPNg%3D%3D&b=t%3AIXa2i0YjFeYnq2qFbqpJqg&p=http%3A%2F%2Flittlegreenplasticsoldier.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158019953877%2Flook-about-last-night-im-just-sayin-part-3&m=1) in my head.”

“Ha!” you burst, and cover your mouth for blushing.  Oh, he’s good.  “Okay.”

“Really.  I got a lotta time for the way you fight,” he tells you.  “A lotta time for you in general.”

Your blush creeps up to your hairline.  “Yeah, I um.  I got that.”  

“I’ve never,” Dean starts, pouting about how to phrase this.  “That’s never… happened-”

“Shshshsh-sh-sh-shsh,” you say and lean over to top up his glass.  “Something I’ve always admired about you; you usually know when to call it.”

Dean looks at the whiskey he holds and peers at you and where the fuck- _wherethefuckisthisgoing?!_  You’re freaking me out!

“Like, normally you wouldn’t take a girl home just because you can.”  You take another hefty gulp.  “Normally you know you’re too drunk, and you skip it.  Just say, Thanks but no thanks, take yourself back to the motel and sleep it off.”

“Right.”  He looks at the space beside you, the door, thinking of how that’s true.  “I usually take a pass.”

“You would never normally risk someone meeting some whiskey-dick on a night with Dean Winchester-” He slumps and glares at you even putting the words in the same sentence, and you drink the last of _even more whiskey!! **Stop it!!**_  “- I’m guessing-” You lick the drink off your lips and stare at your empty glass, “I’d assume you’d have to really liked a girl for you to keep going anyway.”

Oh.  Oh damn.  

No, shit.  No you work your magic, I’m just gonna.  I’ll be back here.  Damn.

When you sneak a peek at Dean, he’s got a smile pulled from his back pocket and he’s playing with the light in the glass.  He looks up at you and finishes what he’s got too, putting the glass on the bedside table.

The Dutch courage must be kicking in, coz here you go again.  “You know, I don’t really remember anything about last night-”

“Uuh,” Dean looks to the side, under his thoughtful brow, “you sure recall a lot for someone who remembers nothing.”

“It’s just. Um.”

Pretend I’m not here.

You blink and lick your lips. “It’s very fuzzy, but my _point-”_ Good.  “-my point is that we could pretty much say that we didn’t really…” You know.

“Well, yeah, according to your terrible memory, and all the evidence,” he groans, “we didn’t.”

“No.   _Dean,_ take the bait.  I’m saying if we don’t remember anything, really, then there’s nothing to talk about! Right? Uuuh?”  You raise your eyebrows to offer it to him and after a second Dean rolls his eyes, smirking at you all lazy and familiar.  

 _“Oh,”_ he says, understanding.  “You mean it didn’t even happen.”

“Complete blank,” you shake your head.  You put down the empty glass and clear your throat.  “So who did you end up with anyway?”

“Uuuh,” Dean’s smiling, rubbing his hand back and forth across his eyes while he thinks.  “I can’t even begin,” he groans.  “Ask me later.  She was awesome,” he states, looking at you earnestly.  “Very awesome.  And aaah… I hope I run into her again.”

Happiness and relief bloom over your face (plus the rosy whiskey blush.  Not judging!) and Dean grins back.  He kind of looks over the two of you, like he’s figuring out what might happen next, but doesn’t move yet.  “Who’d you end up with?” he asks, offering your turn.

“Think I was with a-uuuh Dan?  Dan someone?” You’re thinking very hard.  “But um, he was something.”

“Oh really,” Dean laughs.  “Should I even ask?”

“Oh my goodness,” you lean away from the desk, twisting wistfully with the memory.  “We talked and talked,” you sigh, stepping up beside the bed and Dean’s quick to get his feet on the floor, turning to you as he sits.  “And um, I went with him back to his motel room.  I was very drunk.”  You reach down for his knees and lean on them to kneel on the floor.

Dean runs his fingers up the back of your arms and brushes your hair back a bit, happy to see you so near.

“And all I remember was how lovely he was, said the nicest things.”

Dean’s a little thrown by the complement, tucks his bottom lip into the upper, cute little frowns as you talk.

“And I was so damn happy to wake up with him this morning.”

He’s smothering his smirk, watching you work what he thought was one of his biggest disasters into the sweetest gesture of his life.  “I’m pretty sure he was the happier one, definitely the luckier.”

You lean forward and Dean doesn’t back away, lets his gaze lock onto your mouth, right before him, and his hands stop still on the back of your shoulders.

“Ask me why I liked him so much,” you tell him.  

Oh my god, I’m so proud.

He looks like he’s about to laugh, but he does as you ask.  “Why did you like him so much?”

“Because he reminded me of you.”

Dean’s eyes snap to yours so sharply you might’ve flinched.  He looks confused, like that couldn’t possibly be true, and you nod so slightly.

He leans in, watches your lips until his eyes close and he can feel you on him again.  It’s perfect, a slow, tentative reach with just his lips, carefully parted so there’s some taste without the lick, and he eases in a bit of plush, with the start of a pluck before it finishes.   

Dean asks “Dan teach you how to be so damn smooth too?”

“U-huh,” you lick your lips, “everything I know.”

“Yeah?  Sounds like a smug bastard.”  

He’s zoning in on your mouth again, but you say “Totally justified. Watch this,” and catch his lips with the fullest, most generous, toe-curling kiss I’ve ever- okay, I see the need for alcohol here.  You’ve got his head in your hands, leaning into him and kissing him so beautifully, all he can do is hold on to your ribs.  That’s brave, woman, and hot.  He is _loving_ this.

You break for a bit, look at each others lips all fat and shiney.

“Jesus.”  He’s sighing!

“Yeah,” you sigh back - oh! Swoon! - and kiss him again, hungry and tilting, and I guess you gave him some sorta sign in there because he’s - hello! - he’s suddenly tapped in.  

He pulls you against him, thumps you into his chest and reaches down to scoop his forearm under your butt so he can lift you up and fall back onto the bed, and you get a knee up either side of his hips.  It means you can lift yourself a bit and he scoots backwards some.  He wraps a hand around your neck and grabs a handful of ass, encouraging you to settle yourself on him with your knees by his ribs.

“You are really good at kissing,” you sigh through the kissing.

“Better than Dan?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip and smile at him.  “He was very good but also very drunk.”

“Idiot,” he says, brushing your hair aside, “wasting a moment with you by being drunk.”  AAAW!

You two look so perfect.  His great big hand on the back of your head and the other one up the middle of your back, those forearms pressing you to him and the kissing.  Jesus.  So hot.  Yeah, do that.

Also, I mean, I know you know that Dean’s hands are a thing, but Dean’s hands on _you?_ The thing.  The most, just _the_ most suggestive, pulse-pushing, pussy-throbbing, fuck-off sexy thing.  He doesn’t care that your hair needs brushing back, just does it in big slow sweeps, drags a fingertip down your neck to catch the wisps.  And he’s got that thick watch on, big strong hand dragging from your shoulder down your back to your ass, sliding over it like the last polish, before grabbing a healthy handful, right where it squishes, and settling on your thigh, dinting into the fat with his fingertips.  And then he kind of rolls under you, adjusts and fuck, _fuck,_ the shadow of his jaw, your jaw, as you kiss, your hair tipping over onto his, _ugh._

…It’s hypnotising I tell you.  I don’t know how long has gone by, I could watch that forever.

Dean murmurs “I could do that forever.”  Thank you.  “You mind if we do more?”

“More of that?”

“No.”

Hell no you don’t.  Oh my fuck you two are adorable, grinning at each other.

He flips you both, even though it pins his arms under your back, and climbs his legs over the blanket to get against you.  The eye contact is gorgeous, like a tether, so tangible I can’t even see past it.

“Up here,” Dean says, patting the pillow.  He helps you move so you can use the length of the bed properly and give his feet some purchase.

He gets his elbow by your shoulder and leans to the side so he can look down your body, drags his knuckles up and down your chest a bit.  He’s so happy to see you, to be laying there inside your legs, and you pull on his chin, lead him back for more kissing while his hand holds your waist.  

“This okay?” 

“Yeah, it’s all okay,” you nod happily. “I kinda thought we might- that we could have a do over.” 

“What, now?” 

“Yeah, why d'you think I brought the whiskey?” 

“Oh Y/N,” Oh, he looks sorry! “I don’t need to be liquored up for you. I just-” 

“No it’s for me! I’s fuckin’ nervous!” you assure. “You know, initiating our _first time_ together and everything?” 

Dean starts to giggle, bouncing against you. 

“Especially after Whaternane last night.” Gosh this is starting to get intimate. Should I go? 

“Don’t worry about her,” he says, “she doesn’t compare to you.” He leans down, pecks while he looks at you. “Actually, that’s not true,” he murmurs quietly. “They’re all compared to you, and they fail.” 

“Oh, you got some pointers from Dan, too, I see."  You place your hands over his ears, jaw, somewhere there and just hold his head, cradle it, feel the size of him that way, and arch your back to curve up against him in affection, and he pulls on you too.  He’s _happy_. 

Nope. I’m not missing this for anything. 

The cheeky bastard slips his palm up to your breast, and he smiles, and you smile, pretending he isn’t getting a handful, but he swipes his thumb over the tip and your jump trips into a sigh, and you tilt up for more. So he, oh my goodness, he’s practically massaging it, kneading his palm up the side and wrapping his fingers over the top, and you can’t figure out how to move the rest of yourself to make the most of it, willing him to slip over the peak again.  But your surging against him so hard, so keenly, that he leans on you, weighs you into the bed, and palms you heavy and full,  drags all five fingers down the curve and plucks you.   Fuck yes that move.

“Oh shit, Dean,” you sigh.

“What?” You’re so bent but I’m telling you, he’s looking at you like you’re about to give him a giant slinky.

“…Do that again.”  Just _raunch._

He pushes his leaning arm under your ribs, holds your neck from behind, dives onto your collarbone and does as he’s told, feels you flex and drag your groin against his as he trips the pleasure in his hands.  He’s curving himself over you, bending your ribs up into his so he can press his mouth under your ear and push his crotch down into yours.  You close your eyes and give into it, breathing deep, drinking in the feeling of his body shaping you while he works pleasure over your breast.

“He teach you this?” He’s talking into the curve under your jaw.

“Yeah,” you sigh.  “Sure did.  Can’t wait to use it.”  With a hand on each cheek you make him kiss you again, keep dragging your tongue over his while you pretend to not notice his hand slide down your belly.  You feel the tug of a finger hooking over your waistband, and when you don’t stop him he pops the button of your jeans.  Pinching the zipper, he waits for you to say yay or nay, until you wrap a hand around this fist to pull it down to open the fly.

Dean smiles broad and happy, sucking in a deep breath as he gets settled on his shoulder again and tucks his fingers into the waistband of your panties.

“Okay?”  So deep and quiet. Oh- that’s it! That’s the face he gave you last night, but with, like, depth perception.  Oh, he likes you so much, Y/N!  I’m so glad this is happening!!

“Yeah, s’okay,” you smile, “I’ll just-” and you grab the side seams of your pants and pull them down a little, giving him room, tuck down the panties enough that he can see the creases meet when he looks down.

You know I always thought doing anything like this under the full light of a room would be awkward, like a bit too much information, but it’s really not.  It’s kind of easier.  And it’s definitely sexy.  I mean there’s nothing you want to miss about this with Dean.  He’s so big, everywhere.  Big long legs, big strong hands, big bright smile; it’s nice, and kind of intense.  You don’t wanna miss that.

Big fucking fingers too. I mean it’s not like you don’t cast a shadow but those digits make any woman’s nethers look petite.  

So he’s kissing you again, kinda lazy and sweet while you both have half a mind on what he’s doing down there: he’s drawing his middle finger down the middle, pushing into the seam and just, slides down, and up.  Simple.  Down, and up.  Dooooownallthewaydown and up.

You wriggle your legs but it’s useless because they’re kind of fixed - held almost together by the waist of your jeans, you daft thing, and pushed into that width by Dean’s body. Still he’s not giving you time to get them down further.  He just keeps slipping down and up, striping light pressure and steady friction, starting to dip a bit deeper where he can.

You tuck your hips up as curly as you can and lay yourself flat again like _Here you go, deeper please,_ as if it’s any different to what it just was, and Dean chuckles at you pining for it.  Down and up, and down and in and up, and down and fuck and up and down and now he puts his warm hand over you, cups your vulva, grinning at your solid, frustrated buck and groan.

He pushes that finger into the seam, drags the length of it up and starts a broad circle around your clit.  Your hand floats up to his jaw, keeping his lips close to yours, and he breathes in the sounds of you listening to him strum your nerves.

Steadily he circles, for a long time.  Long enough for you to open your eyes and wonder what he’s doing.

“S’at feel nice?”

“Yeah,” you answer.  “I might go crazy though.”

“I’m just passing the time, watching you look so beautiful,” he says.  “You want me to change it up a bit?”

“Are you being an asshole?”

The crinkles by his eyes give him away.  “You can’t skimp on this bit sweetheart.”  There’s a kind of flatness of his brow, a moment of dry expression that says _I know Dan fucked up this part_ and you huff a little, unable to really break out of what he’s doing to your body.

Dean starts dragging two fingers up and down either side of your clit, and it’s a nice different, a little bit easier to take, so you bend and wriggle to get your pants off altogether, Dean moving aside so you can kick them off your bare feet before lying between them again.

“Lift up your shirt,” he says.  You tug the hem up to your armpit, over your bust, and he nods at your breast, the one he was loving before, “Gimme that.”  So you pull the lacy cup down, even if it looks a bit awkward, because that’s what he wants.  Dean leans over for it straight away, sucks the soft nipple between his lips and drags his rough tongue over the tip.

All your fingers dive into his hair and you curve for him, sigh _Oh!_ and writhe under him, and he drives his fingers down and up again, down and in and out and up, down and in and curls and out and up, down and in and curls and _in and in and fuck…_  He keeps going, dragging over the length of all those hungry nerves, over and over, and when you clench his hair and growl through your teeth, he pushes in with three and you groan through a tight jaw.  

He finds your clit with his thumb, moves around it in circles while he thrusts his fingers and does whatever to your nipple.  You curl more, legs working mindlessly, and suck your teeth at the feeling of being dragged to the edge one. Inch. At a time.  

“Oh shit Dean,” you warn him, “Dean, oh… fffuck!!”  The rub inside, the thickness and fuck that thumb, he’s curved over you and actually got your leg pinned under his to try and keep you manageable, but you still bend up under him, hug his head as you come loud and surprised and sighing against the side of his neck.

He groans, lifting his head to look at you and see what he’s done.  He’s still got his track pants and socks on, plaid shirt open and rolled up at the sleeves, grey tee beneath, watching you half-naked and dishevelled and tangled up in him and a deliciously heavy orgasm.

You’ve ended up laying on his forearm, neck tucked into the crook of his elbow, and he looks at you so lovingly while you sigh and whet your lips, put your hand on your head and unfold.  He’s gone back to cupping you there, like a little hug where it hums, and you make him kiss you.  Like that you roll onto your side and he slumps down too, shuffling close so you can throw a leg over him.   

He unclasps your bra and hugs you hard.  When you need to breathe again, he lays there looking at you in his arms on his bed.  I’m hugging myself.

“Hmmmm,” you sigh, “I think you need to take your clothes off.”

He smiles again and waits for you to open your eyes.  “I will,” he says, like _In a minute._ His hand runs up and down the side of your body and you gaze at each other like my vision should be fuzzy because you two are redonk.  I _will_ throw up if this gets too gooey.

He helps you get your top and bra all the way off and drink in you and all your skin.  Extra points to you for not covering anything too.  You look, if I may say, gorgeous.  Warm and curvy, and just, so damn _healthy._   Orgasms are so _good_ for you.

“I’m serious about the clothes,” you nod.  “I don’t wanna have to stop part way through anything else.”

“Noted.” He pecks your nose and slides down the bed.

You watch him, gaping in confusion because surely he’s not- Christ he is. He’s fixed on your pussy, eyes tracking it as he moves your legs, rolls you onto your back again, and pulls off all your pants because he wants to see.

“Dean, you don’t have to-”

“I know.” Still staring, arranging your thighs over his shoulders, he smiles up at you, slack and lips freshly licked. You’re up on your elbows, wondering what the hell - don’t argue woman. 

“I wanna,” he grins and _watches_ you as he leans down and lays his mouth on you, like he’s biting into a split peach, and licks down to the pit.

“Uuuoh Chr-ist!” Your head rolls back to the mattress eyes first.

He must know how sensitive you are right now; he’s going easy, licking lightly through the swollen lips and folds, watching and listening for you. Oh god I can’t- I can’t watch.  I really should… turn away…

My word he’s long. His elbows are by your hips and his shirts are scrunched up, showing the waistband of his pants low on his hips. That fucking adorable ass and the white socks at the end of those forever legs - they almost touch the door. But his belly is showing too, long and toned down the side as he reaches his arms up around your thighs.

Add to that your legs, bare and strong, and your fingers spidering into his scalp. God, watching his eyes look up and crinkle happy when you arch your back, his cheekbone by your hip bone. You’re moving like his tongue reaches all the way to your throat. Perfect.

He’s patient, tenacious with what he can see makes you squeak and sigh, and after you’ve tugged on his hair and jutted your hip into his face, he knows where to stay, sucking and flicking, listening for the crescendo, and then he slides two fingers inside again and just drags the friction up and down that patch once. You shudder, everything around him quivering and his fingers press into your hips like he’s drinking from a bowl. He closes his eyes and nuzzles down, groaning in satisfaction as you sigh.

Then he just lays there, leaning an ear on your thigh, watching you come down. He’s waiting for when you open your eyes; that’s when he gets up, flicks his shirt off his shoulders and pulls his shirt up, crawling to you with that same hungry gaze he had before, and grinning when you fumble and help get him bare.

You kiss him, yank his head to yours with your palms on his cheeks, and he keeps himself from falling onto you. You should see his track pants. Not so much tenting as marqueeing.

“There’s stuff in here?” you ask and flip over to the nightstand as he says _Yeah_ and watches you get a condom while he kicks off the last of his gear.  

On your back you say “Come here.”

Oh he’s gone all goofy! No-! Oh my god, I think he remembers.  That’s right! He remembers this bit, where he hovered over you and you put the condom on his not-properly-hard willy and pretended everything was fine.  Oh shit, he’s- Jesus, so he’s got an elbow either side of your shoulders, an easy plank with his knees between yours and waiting for you to get the condom out, and he’s literally cocky.  

He doesn’t watch what you’re doing, just your dimpling, blushing face, you biting your lips together and trying not to smile because he is so. _Hard._  Like shin-bone hard, painful, are-you-okay hard, like “Hey has your dick been pumping since last night?” hard.  It’s gloriously so much better, suits him, suits every wall-muted scream you’ve ever withstood and yes that will suit you just fine forever. The condom goes down like the frickin’ [Star Wars theme](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F4rQSJDLM8ZE&t=OTU3ZjhiYzFmMjBhNzJmZTI2ZDkzYjRlNjZkMThjNTk1ZjZjN2Y4OSxvN0RqUzVPNg%3D%3D&b=t%3AIXa2i0YjFeYnq2qFbqpJqg&p=http%3A%2F%2Flittlegreenplasticsoldier.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158019953877%2Flook-about-last-night-im-just-sayin-part-3&m=1).

“Easier?” he smirks.  Cheeky boy.

“Harder,” you wink.  OOOH!! BUUUUURN!!

He gapes and you add “Too soon?”

“Yes,” he laughs, “always,” and he watches you lean up to kiss his staring smile.  “Cheeky little shit.”

“Come on then,” you beam, pulling on his waist.  “Shut me up.”

Dean drops onto you, mouth to mouth, locks your lips together and reaches between you to lead his cock to your softness.  There’s a little nudge to get himself in place and you wind up tight from just that first inch, the roundness tucked in like a lollipop on your lips.

Then he moves forward about two more inches and stops, kissing you like everything’s a-o-kay.  The distance between his hips and your ass is unnatural.  It’s weird, and while he’s starting to wriggle his legs and tense from teasing himself, finding it harder to ignore your little hums and moans and pulling limbs, you look like you’ve fallen and you can’t get up.

After a few more seconds you stop kissing, making a _Khh_ sound and say “Do you not like me or something?   _AH!”_

Fuck, _yes,_ he’s just thumped right in there, balls to butt, and pulled back all the way to do it again, drive that thickness into you where it hasn’t eased off yet and drag pressure along your walls.   _Yes._

You pull your head back and writhe, throw a leg over each of his and wind them about the bones like a climbing vine.  He gives into it, feels you pull him long and bend his shape. You cram his hips between your thighs and smear your pubic bone over his, eyes closed to feel the length of him tangled in your body and grind the pleasure.  He looks at your slack lips and your tongue pushing up into your hard palate, thinking how he’s never quite felt a woman fuck him up like this.  He drops his head, shoulders high, forehead to your neck, and holds strong while you screw yourself on him.  

Also: his _ass,_ when he fucked into you, all those back and leg muscles working with it (God the curve of him from shoulder to knee, like a mouse could just slippery-dip off that and into a hot chocolate), all that smooth skin with the dips and shadows, simply one of the most erotic things ever seen. And now he’s slack for you, just working enough to keep from crushing you, digging his pelvis in whenever it feels right, and that surrender in his muscles-  I’m fanning, fanning myself here.

Dean starts dragging his palms over your hair, then gathers you up to kiss him and gets his forearms under your shoulders.  Your legs release his, the soles of your feet instead dragging up the backs of his calves and hamstrings, pulling him to you, and you let your ankles cross lazily over his ass as he sets a steady, rolling pace, sucking on your tongue and lips.

From the top of the split, right down to where the flesh gives for his girth, you feel him roll over you, a forward circle that has his weight rocking over your clit and his cock pitching and massaging you inside.  It’s delicious, promising, and that downwards force towards your ass is so satisfying, reminds you of your mouth being full.

And, may I just add; this is Dean kissing you while he does something else.  It’s frikken thorough for someone distracted. Though it’s hardly surprising that Dean’s default is higher than average. (And if you’re wondering how he’s holding off for so long: he spent a lot of that car trip thinking of what he missed last night, thinking he might never see it again. So first thing back he had a shower and tugged out a pity-party to the tune of Aerosmith’s [What It Takes](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F340oHecvuIw&t=NjEzZDQ0OTNjOTk5ZDU4N2M0MGYwYzFiNWY2OTNmNGJiMjI4MjU2OSxvN0RqUzVPNg%3D%3D&b=t%3AIXa2i0YjFeYnq2qFbqpJqg&p=http%3A%2F%2Flittlegreenplasticsoldier.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158019953877%2Flook-about-last-night-im-just-sayin-part-3&m=1). There you go.)

He eases up a bit and started kissing around your cheek.  “So gorgeous, Y/N,” he whispers.  “I told you that right?”

“Mmm.”  Oh, you’re so modest.  “You mean Dan?”

“No, I mean me.”  ‘Atta boy.  He’s kissing over to your ear, nibbling your earlobe and I’m keeping an eye on that spot about an inch lower. “Tell me what I said.”

“That I was pretty,” you say simply.

“You are pretty,” he agrees.  “Also hot as all hell.  What else?”

“Um, oooohshit!” Oh he’s got that spot, and playing it like he knows it.  

He nudges you aside to get it better, starts tonguing it and watching you lose your shit over that button.  He’s smiling too, breath washing over you before he bites hungry kisses down the meat of your neck.  “What else, Y/N?”

“Uh, fuck,” you sigh.  “It’s really hard to think while we’re doing this, you know.”

“I know.  I just wanna hear you say it.  What else?”

“That you wanted this,” you manage.

“For how long?” He lifts his head to look at you and slows down to hear the answer.

The little dints around your fingertips, your thumb in his ribs, give away the work it is to stay still right now.  “Always,” you confess.  His eyelashes are all tangled from rubbing his face against you and his cheeks have a blush you haven’t seen before, set off by the ridiculous rose of his plumped up lips.

Dean nods a little, so you know he wasn’t just saying drunk shit.  “Never planned on taking that back.”

Well I’m dead. 

I’m sure he sees your happiness, but the relief is there too, because I know you hesitated to believe those words coming from the drunkest version of him you’ve ever seen.  I hope you see the relief in him too, that you’re happy.

“See what you do to me, sweetheart?” He pulls a fuck-happy smile and kisses you again, talking into your lips as he starts to move again.  “Got me doing chick-flick romance already.”

“It’s not chick-flick romance,” you tell him, and push to make him roll you both over.

He lands on his back, his hands still tight on you, holding you close.  You give him a solid, full kiss and say “It’s chick-flick porn,” then push off his chest to sit up straight, letting his hands drag broad around your ribs and down your waist.

Dean’s gaze trickles down your body, confirming bleary memories, improving them with his hands in the picture and you in his room.  You rock up and down, humming with the change in pressure, and he licks over his bottom lip, pulls it in for a bite as he tests your reaction to him thrusting upwards.

“Mm! Yeah,” you sigh, pitching for it.  “That’s… yeah.”

Again he goes, lifting you with him, drunk on your breasts heaving for him, eyes glazing when you gasp at how good it is.

“You ready?” he asks.  You nod  “Hmmyeah” and he takes your hand over to your folds, squeezes your wrist like _Only the best for you babe_ (I’m projecting) and gets a firm hold on your hips.  Then he nudges you up with another thrust and holds you there, helping your thighs keep you steady as he starts to properly fuck you.

He gives one steady thrust, and then goes hard, hard for the peak, and it hits the spot every time.  You’re noisy, shit, every beat, high gasps and pleading brow, fingers circling to keep up.  

You lean a hand on his chest and he speeds up, both of you galloping for the other, digs his fingers into the fat, and he’s watching your jaw drop, hair everywhere, fingers flying for perfection.  “Ah! Fuck! Dean!”

“Oh, Jesus, Y/N,” he pants and he looks so desperate, he’s really holding off.  It’s all so damn perfect, his cock fucking in and out, disappearing so fast and slick and it just looks bone-bendingly accurate.

It all lines up, a constellation of pressure and friction, and you throw your chest forward, arching your spine as the ecstasy drums through your pussy, right through your flesh to the marrow of your hips, washing out through your body.  Your fingers lose their place, and Dean pulls your hips down onto him as he keeps thrusting, seeking out the way you quake around him and his hips kind of mumble into it.  He’s noisy too, every puffing breath a _Uh! Oh! Uh!_ just like you.  

Dean doesn’t open his eyes, just finds your arm and leads you down to kiss him, humming and puffing, and kissing. He brushes your hair aside so he can lay you on his chest while you recover.

And that’s where you stay until your breathing’s settled down and his dick’s slipped out.  His hands start rubbing up and down your back, and after a while you’re both lazily blinking at whatever you can see while you drag sweet fingertips over cooling skin.

“I think I kinda regret chucking that whiskey,” Dean drawls.

You lift your head and smile at him, lace your fingers and lay them on his chest for your chin.  “You know,” you say, “some people think alcohol fixes nothing.”

Oh screw you.  I’m only giving you the facts, okay?  You should just thank your lucky stars he was drunker than you.  I mean, I dread to think what’s equivalent to testing the physics of a friend’s limp dick, but you’ve certainly got potential for embarrassment.  Remember the lost-and-found panties of Christmas ‘15?  Whatsisname with the immeasurably good toy-that-shan’t-be-named? Yeah.  Your best interests and all that.  You’re _welcome._

“Huh,” Dean smirks.  He’s stroking your eyebrow with this thumb and looking at you, gosh, if that isn’t the start of something big, I don’t know what is.  Adoration?  Devotion?  It’s _like_ love, at the least.  “Some people just got proven extremely wrong.”

“Shot down in flames.”

Yeah.  Well…  Congrats.  I guess.


End file.
